


Everything That Shine Ain't Always Gonna Be Gold

by ken_ichijouji (dommific)



Series: Vodka Infused with a Dash of Bitters [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mood Board, POV Victor Nikiforov, Rain, Sad Ending, That You Should Listen to!, The Bob Marley Song is Could You Be Loved BTW, Which Doesn't Really Exist, Which is on the Playlist!, gratuitous Whitney houston, lonely hearts club, quarter life crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 05:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15430185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dommific/pseuds/ken_ichijouji
Summary: I'm on the pursuit of happiness, and I know---Everything that shine ain't always gonna be gold.Hey, I'll be fine once I get it...I'll be good.Victor peaked before age 25 and has been muddling through ever since. Maybe that's over now thanks to Yuuri.Maybe it's not.





	Everything That Shine Ain't Always Gonna Be Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thehobbem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobbem/gifts).



>  
> 
>   
> [Listen](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168581471/playlist/091tI3OPknWVtnBQJUQ06g?si=3KliXlvzT5y76_1SUvMwZw)  
> 

Six years ago, Victor Nikiforov became the youngest winner on record of a James Beard Foundation award. The year before that, he parted ways with his longtime mentor Yakov Feltsman to begin the cocktail and wine programs at a new bar called Aria.  
  
Three months of painstaking taste tests and ingredient sourcing resulted in a concoction of Peychaud’s, raspberry, rum, Campari, and edible gold on the rim. He named it the Living Legend, and the first four months after their soft opening, they rarely kept up with demand.  
  
The following June while giving an acceptance speech to a banquet hall filled with press and the crème de la crème of the American restaurant scene, Victor Nikiforov smiled with his gold medal around his neck, promptly disappearing after his standing ovation to violently throw up in a waste bin while hiding in an empty office down the hall.  
  
He wasn’t even twenty-five yet, and he’d won the hospitality industry’s highest honor. Aria had been granted two Michelin Stars. Where the actual hell could he possibly go from there?  
  
It’s been the same poor little Rich Boy story since. Victor spends too much time on making new avant garde cocktails, wins all the prizes, and sits alone on his couch watching livestreams of Food Network solely to tear Sandra Lee’s Semi-Homemade apart because no, Sandy, putting crushed potato chips on a strip steak isn’t home-making a Goddamn thing and Christ her tablescapes are tacky.  
  
He’s on a first-name basis with his Postmates driver at this point. Sometimes he eats pasta three times a day. He needs help.  
  
Five of those damn medals, more Michelin Stars than sense, and one day he’s outside of Yakov’s joint project with a bunch of his longtime buddies including the ex-Mrs. It’s called Grand Prix, and Victor doesn’t give much thought to stepping in. It’s the middle of the day, and he’s definitely come in during some kind of meeting.  
  
The cute, happy boy who takes his order and gives him a delightful refreshment with Herbes de Provence is one thing, but then he sees _him_.  
  
In a city that never sleeps, everyone is bound to have a missed connection or twelve. Victor’s sits at the end of the bar eating, with messy coal hair like silk and warm brown eyes like this beautiful Islay Victor keeps a dram of at Lilac Fairy.  When last they met, he was a wild thing, dancing and free like he never knew an ounce of pain. He turns to look at Victor, all wide eyes and dreamy smiles, and Victor’s world narrows to a memory of Calvin Harris and Rih-Rih performing at a Hamptons party in his honor for his last birthday.  
  
It was the same tedious, stupid celeb-filled affair as always until a clammy hand wrapped around his waist and pulled him into circles on the edge of the outside dance floor. The weather was atypically mild and Victor finally remembered how to laugh after half a decade, really laugh where it’s deep down in his belly, completely lacking grace or softness.  
  
Rih-Rih sang Whitney over Calvin’s spinning, and…then Victor fell.  
  
_I’ve been in love and lost my senses, spinning through the town. Sooner or later, the fever ends, and I wind up feeling down. I need a man who’ll take a chance on a love that burns hot enough to last! So when the night falls, my lonely heart calls…_  
  
He failed utterly to get his name, his number, his godforsaken Tinder profile, and instead Victor got his heart stolen by an expert thief who callously plucks them from people’s chests like so much pocket change and $200 watches.  
  
The malaise of the bar life and the depressing yet modern take on Cinderella did nothing to improve his mood until he drank at Grand Prix and made eye contact that was all-too-brief before he blushed and cast his eyes away.  
  
When their bar meeting ended, and the shift changed, Victor requested an audience with Celestino. Yakov’s affection was always somewhat grudging, but Celestino’s respect was clear and open.  
  
Twenty minutes later Victor quit Lilac Fairy. The next day, he had a new commute from his Tribeca flat, a new drink menu to learn, an impending food and Standards of Service test, and then…  
  
He came to work in the all-black, though this time his hair was gelled out of his eyes. He was adorable, and Victor’s heart awakened, like it just remembered how to beat. “Starting today I’m your new bar manager!” Victor proclaimed.  
  
His mystery man, who he now knows is Yuuri, squawked. He was beet red, and he mumbled something half-gracious while bolting for the hills. Every shift they share is like this, Victor moves two steps forward, Yuuri bolts three back, and while he’s out of his obligatory 90 day probation period now, he’s only just getting the hint.  
  
A whirlwind encounter that changed his life means nothing to Yuuri, and he needs to learn to accept it.  
  
Though, the new bar is honestly great. It’s not Victor’s menu this time, so that alone aids his ability to sleep. He’s at work less so he can spend more time with his beautiful Makkachin. She’s long in the tooth, and if Victor thinks too hard about her age he chokes up and has to blink too fast to push away the tears.  
  
Victor just makes the drinks and orders the ingredients. Victor has no obligation to make up stuff unless he feels like having a special. Which…all of them behind the bar at Grand Prix are incredible at. He barely has to give suggestions. Sara excels at whiskey, Phichit is a wizard with punch bowls, Chris has yet to formulate a Prosecco cocktail that isn’t an immediate hit…  
  
Yuuri is a dream.  
  
It’s far enough into fall that Central Park has changed from green to red, orange, and gold, and the weather today is gross. Muggy, rainy, yet a jacket’s a necessity anyhow, and as such it’s a quiet Sunday dinner shift.  
  
Their bar supplier provided samples of a new line of simple syrups, all of them floral. There’s one made of violets, and taking only just enough time for a shaker with some ice, Yuuri pushes a blue-lavender drink across the bar to Victor with an edible pansy floating on top.  
  
“Is this supposed to remind me of the clearest sky I ever flew in?” Victor asks. It does resemble an Aviation quite a bit when he takes a closer look, though not so much like the Savoy manual’s maraschino recipe.  
  
Yuuri’s eyes are bright and his expression is dying for approval. He doesn’t speak, gesturing for Victor to take a sip. He does, and he smiles harder than he has in ages. “Vkusno!”  
  
“Edible violets, for garnish,” Yuuri thinks out loud. “Was I too heavy-handed with the Luxardo?”  
  
“Honestly, yeah that should be dialed back a hair,” Victor states as he takes a longer drink. “Maybe rinse the glass with it like vermouth instead.”  
  
Yuuri notes it in their recipe book. “Mm.”  
  
The rain gets louder against the glass. Victor carries the martini to the nearest POS. He swipes the manager card and…they haven’t sold anything, food, drink, or even a bottled soda, in two hours. He has the keys to the whole place. He’s the only manager on tonight.  
  
“Yuuri,” he says. The thought of costing Yakov and his partners this much money to stay open until last call makes him sick. The thought of never getting another moment with Yuuri makes him sicker. “What’s say we call it a night and go find some trouble?”  
  
The sound of something shattering behind him causes his eyebrow to rise. He turns to the sight of Yuuri mopping up a bottle of the well gin. Not as low quality as Aristocrat — Yakov would never — but at least it wasn’t some vintage Dom, is all he’s saying.  
  
Yuuri looks soft and cute. He has a black button-up shirt on with his sleeves rolled high, exposing incredible forearms. His black skinny jeans are…a problem Victor will resolve in his shower when he gets home unless he can persuade him to come out for a nip of liquor made by Not Either of Them or Their Coworkers.  
  
Anything beyond is…a hope he dare not get too attached to.  
  
Victor only needs a few moments to convince the kitchen to close down. He also pretends to not hear Emil immediately call his weed dealer, Seung Gil, but it’s the restaurant industry. If Yakov fires every stoner he employs, he’ll have two workers left between six restaurants.  
  
Victor closes down, counts tills, checks off long reports to give people their tips. Yuuri is the last one, and he gives Victor a crooked smile. “Did you mean it?”  
  
Victor winks. “For you? Always.”  
  
Yuuri is incandescent, and Victor thinks _maybe_.  
  
They pack up and walk towards Chelsea, surrounded by lights and noise. In a perfect world, Victor would take Yuuri to a quiet corner of Gallow Green, sharing drinks made from pea flower and rose, feeding each other grilled octopus and beef carpaccio on the roof of a vintage train station surrounded by lush, verdant pergolas and an unobstructed view of Manhattan.  
  
It’s raining, and it’s a rooftop bar. Thus, another day.  
  
They end up standing room only along a pine bar as Victor orders them doubles of Four Roses, neat. He tries to charm, tries to turn on the sex by stealth undoing the two top buttons of his own black dress shirt and leaning just so.  
  
The bar was stained recently, though, and he slides off it like something in a Monty Python sketch to the cheerful crooning of Bob Marley and the Wailers. Yuuri catches him like he’s paid to, the canvas of his blue coat lending warmth to his skin in the dim lighting. Victor wraps his hands around his waist, perhaps too much, and it’s like dancing poolside at a mansion under a winter sky all over again.  
  
Yuuri blushes but doesn’t move away this time. Then he slaps Victor hard on the shoulder. “Tag!”  
  
Victor stares at him.  
  
Yuuri eyes his hand like it’s betrayed him, like he has no idea what hands even are. Victor puts down enough cash plus an 80% tip before giving Yuuri a grin. “So I’m ‘It,’ then?”  
  
“Yeah, you are,” Yuuri says. His voice is liquor-laced, stirring something in Victor that makes him linger on wedding magazines more than he ever has before.  
  
Before Victor speaks, Yuuri runs. Victor chases, like he’s chased him all year using ephemeral detective work. They still have on the non-slick shoes required by OSHA and God themselves, and they run for blocks. Yuuri taunts and Victor returns the favor, Yuuri dipping down a street called Wall before Victor can really focus how far they’ve gone.  
  
The rain is done for good, and if New York is magical at Christmas, it is utterly spellbinding after a rain. The pavement shimmers from water and the reflections of street lamps and window lighting. The cars are absent, people having the sense to stay home and binge Netflix. The subway’s even quiet, the steam grates blowing like an enchanted fog greeting everyone to the city that ends all cities.  
  
Victor catches at Morris and Broadway, grabbing his belt loops just in front of the Charging Bull. Photos don’t do its size justice; Victor is just below six feet, and he would look like a child on a swing set if he climbed it.  
  
Victor comes to this part of town sometimes with Makkachin to sit and wonder where he can go from here. Bowling Green is dead the second the clock strikes 17:01, and he can sit with his sweet old lady as he tries to find a purpose for his life.  
  
Yuuri’s half in his arms, half pressed against the Bull’s flank, and Victor suddenly hears Whitney Houston as he bends down. Yuuri meets him halfway, balancing on his toes as their lips meet against a backdrop of a taxi splashing through puddles so large they may as well be ponds.  
  
Yuuri is dazed when they part, dazed and wanting. Victor’s somewhere close to dying, since his fondest wish has come to be after all. “Let me walk you home,” he offers.  
  
“I’ll walk you home,” Yuuri counters. “Makkachin.”  
  
“Okay,” Victor replies with a bright smile.  
  
The route is about twenty minutes, give or take, and Victor leads them northeast on Broadway before taking a left. It’s distracting; he’s like every other New Yorker, angry at people who take up the whole sidewalk and walk too slow like no one in the world is on a deadline. This time he takes his time, Yuuri’s hand in his with his cheeks stained pink like he’s been painted by Vermeer.  
  
Victor decides for their first proper date, he’ll take Yuuri to the Cloisters. It’ll become their spot, and one day if the stars align, Victor can give Yuuri a ring with a promise to match.  
  
Tonight he unlocks his brownstone, and before he can see about a drink for Yuuri, 55 pounds of standard poodle bowl him over. “Makkachin!” Victor scolds.  
  
“I love her,” Yuuri offers from underneath her brown curls. His face is covered in puppy kisses, and Victor’s heart grows. Makkachin is friendly, but she is also protective of her Victor, and this is a very good sign.  
  
Victor locks his door, including his deadbolt. He helps Yuuri out of his jacket like a gentleman. His reward is Yuuri coming his fingers through his hair, lingering on his scalp, and pulling him down for a second kiss.  
  
This is how it feels to live, Victor thinks as they turn into a movie cliche, pawing at one another and unable to stop kissing up his stairs. His bedroom is the entire third floor, but he has a guest room on the second, and that will just have to do this time.  
  
Yuuri tumbles onto the bed, stowing his glasses on the bedside table, and he beckons, calls, and Victor crashes into him with such reckless abandon even Yakov would be startled. Victor’s had a lover or two, but this is entirely different, like jumping from driving lessons on an old beater to a gifted Lamborghini. His heart shifts and pulls, and while his voice demands _more, harder, right there, please,_ his mind screams a chorus of _say you won’t let go, say it won’t take another year to find you, say you love me just as much._  
  
Time ceases to matter, and Victor doesn’t sleep until he can’t keep his eyes open.  
  
He wakes up alone.  
  
Before he panics and lets the bile rise in his throat, he finds a note on the console by the front door.

_I got up and let Makkachin out. I’m also on a double today so I had to go home and change. See you at work. Yuuri._

There’s a creeping, bad feeling in Victor’s mind, but he puts it aside. The note likely sounds stiff since Yuuri wrote it and didn’t tell him these things before he left. Victor has a mid-shift today, so he showers and lavishes Makkachin with love.  
  
He makes sure to preen and groom, choosing a tight black t-shirt that dips just enough to show off his collarbones. Which, they’re great collarbones. Time Out New York says so in all of his profiles, and when he was featured in Night Out, the word chiseled was used often enough he thinks the editor may have been drunk when they proofread it.  
  
_Mr. Nikiforov, 26, most famous for his vanguard cocktail menus at Aria, planned an evening of the highest-end bar crawl a normal person could only vaguely conceive of. His opening salvo is, of course, the Russian Vodka room with its raucous piano and sublime Osetra topped blini. Mr. Nikiforov, with eyes like bioluminescent pools and chiseled cheekbones that A-list actors pay handsome sums for in Beverly Hills—_  
  
He rolled his eyes a lot when he read it, but it’s also only slightly matted and framed behind museum glass in his home library where he keeps the Beard Medals among his other achievements.  
  
Yuuri can easily get a Beard medal, Victor thinks as he enters Grand Prix to clock in for the mid-shift. If he can refine his recipes with perhaps some mentoring from Victor…  
  
Speaking of Yuuri, he’s up on a ladder in his usual tight black skinny jeans, and the sense memory of the night before causes an almost Pavlovian reaction in Victor’s…frankly, Victor’s everything. He’s beautiful, and Victor aches like a junkie. The first hit was free, the second got him hooked, and now if he can’t at least kiss Yuuri once a day for the next billion years, he’ll die of the worst possible withdrawal.  
  
“Gross, not you too,” complains the youngest host on their staff. He’s also a Yuri, but of the Slavic kind with piercing green eyes and shoulder-length blond hair he pulls back to meet health codes. There’s always at least four or five cream cat hairs on his all-black uniform.  
  
Victor doesn’t look away. “Me too what?”  
  
“You see all the drooling idiots when he works,” Yuri continues as he wipes down the menus at a high top. Lunch starts in twenty; Victor’s scheduled for basically lunch through dinner rush, and then he’s home for the night. If he had friends, he would call them and hang out.  
  
Something pink and sparkling fizzes in a Collins glass to Yuri’s left. Victor gets a small alarm bell, even though he knows no one who works here would risk the liquor license to give alcohol to an underage employee. He grabs a cocktail straw, sticks it in the drink only long enough to cover the other end with his thumb, pulls it out, and takes the sample.  
  
Oh.  
  
“A Shirley Temple, Yuri?” Victor asks with amusement.  
  
“Shut up, I like cherries,” is the retort as Yuri grabs the menus and flounces to his domain. He’s homeschooled since he needs to help his Dedushka make rent, which is why he’s here during a weekday. The other hosts come for dinners or work on the weekends, but typically Celestino handles Front of House now that Victor’s freed him from behind the bar.  
  
Yuuri climbs down, and Victor’s soul churns like a hurricane. “Yuuri,” he says. His voice echoes in his own ears.  
  
Yuuri starts. He pushes up his glasses, his face a little red and his eyes a little sad. He schools his features into something sad but sure. “We’re low on the Gosling’s, can you make sure we get it tomorrow?”  
  
Business. They spent the whole night wrapped inside each other, and now it’s business. “Sure, but that isn’t what I wanted to ask you about.” Yuuri brushes past him to the walk in, and Victor follows, nipping at his heels like puppy Makkachin always did. “Yuuri, I wanted to tell you that last night was—“  
  
“It’s okay,” Yuuri says. He doesn’t look at him, pointedly checking the carabiners of the liquid mixers like their tea-infused simple, tamarind juice, and Lilia’s secret sour mix. “I’ve done this a lot. It was a good time.”  
  
After turning with his arms full of the containers, Yuuri’s smile is stilted and his eyes look weird. He looks like someone choking to death on his own false cheer. Then he snaps out of it, the smile turns real, and he excuses himself.  
  
Ten months ago, Victor fell from the stars into Yuuri’s gravity with no chance at escape. Last night he descended a second time.  
  
This time, though, he burned to death on re-entry and had no idea until thirty seconds ago when Yuuri used his right hip to mostly close the walk-in door. Victor stands with his heart ripped in half on his sleeve, unable to even notice the chill surrounding him at 38 degrees Fahrenheit thanks to the numbness encasing his spirit.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Robbie!
> 
> Yuuri has his reasons. You'll see 'em soon. <3
> 
> Title and summary excerpt both are from Kid Cudi, MGMT, and Ratatat’s “Pursuit of Hapiness.”


End file.
